


consume my wine, consume my mind

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cunnilingus, M/M, PWP, gratuitous religious metaphors, they just can't say it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25715362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: Aziraphale bows his head like he’s praying, lowers himself down in supplication, and does not ask for forgiveness.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 88
Collections: Name That Author Round Six





	consume my wine, consume my mind

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for a guess-the-author game in the GO Events discord server. prompt was 'no conversation's a good place to start, i wanna speak in tongues' (a lyric from Speak in Tongues by Ferras)
> 
> title comes from Touch Me from the Spring Awakening soundtrack

This is a secret just for them, wrapped in shadows, kept in silence. There will be a time, someday, for conversation, for words, out loud and real, solid and tangible. But it’s not time yet to talk, and Aziraphale watches Crowley clap a hand over his mouth, even as words try to escape. There’s a sound like his name, pressed back behind teeth, a sound desperate and wanting and pained all at once, and Aziraphale understands. 

Aziraphale bows his head like he’s praying, lowers himself down in supplication, and does not ask for forgiveness. He presses his lips to stomach, to thigh, sears an entire conversation along Crowley’s hips, all the things he cannot ask, all the answers he cannot give. Crowley is quiet above him, only breathing heavily, and Aziraphale spares a glance at his face, finds star-bright eyes watching him, narrowed and already wrecked. Aziraphale puffs out a breath and Crowley shivers as it ghosts over his skin, makes a broken noise as Aziraphale ducks down to where he’s already wet and aching, gently pushing his legs apart. Aziraphale puts his mouth to Crowley’s entrance and pauses. This is Eve eyeing the apple. There’s a beseeching tug at his hair, temptation from the Serpent of Eden. He reaches for the fruit.

Crowley’s back arches, his whole body reacting as Aziraphale’s tongue slides inside him. He gives a muffled cry, fingers tightening in Aziraphale’s curls, as Aziraphale takes him like communion. The angel is worshipping at the altar of a demon; slowly, methodically, lovingly. Aziraphale moves his tongue, drags it slow and teasing, until Crowley is writhing beneath him, bucking into the sensation and chasing pleasure. Aziraphale gives him everything. His mouth is forming words he can’t say out loud, a confession just for Crowley, spelled out in touch and buried between his thighs. 

Aziraphale builds and builds, a rising wave of all the things he wants to give Crowley, but can’t. Not with who they are, not with where they are now. He pours it from his throat, lets it fall from his tongue, and hopes Crowley will understand. The wave reaches a crescendo, a hymn ringing loud and echoing between them, and Aziraphale watches it crash. 

When Crowley hits his climax, overwhelmed and undone, he shouts  _ ‘Aziraphale- _ !’ at full volume, the first coherent thing he’s said since they fell into bed together. Aziraphale crawls up to where Crowley lays, gathers him in his arms, and Crowley clings to him, knowing all too well this can’t last. Aziraphale lets himself imagine a day when they can have more, when they don’t have to choke on their own words, when Aziraphale can tell Crowley what he deserves to hear, the unquestionable truth of the universe sitting between them. Crowley peers up at him, molten gold shining with something sad and resigned. Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s temple; a blessing, a curse, a poor substitute for what they both really want. 

“I know.” He sighs, equally resigned. “I know.”


End file.
